“It is my job, My Lord,” she said finally, in a small voice. Aware with every fibre of her being that the detail and number of the drawings were a direct reflection of her fascination with him.
“Benedict,” he said, glancing at her briefly and then turning a page.
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Benedict,” he replied, raising a brow at the expression on her face.
“It is the middle of the night, my dear. I am in my cups, you are…” He waved his hand over her. “You are dishabille.” A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth, making him even more devastatingly handsome, if possible. “You must call me Benedict, Miss Winters, under the circumstances.”
Emmaline blinked, her cheeks flaring so hot now that they must look like two red circles. But something brave twisted in her belly. Something that whispered,see, he is not the same as the others. You can trust him.
It was an utterly foolish thought, but shewasfoolish. Utterly, brazenly, ninny-brained.
“Emmy,” she whispered, ducking her head shyly. She cleared her throat, trying again.
“That is what you can call me. Emmy, or Emmaline.”
“Emmaline,” he repeated back to her as if testing the sound on his tongue. It sent a shiver all down her spine and her belly flipped as if she was falling from a great height.
“That is a very good name for a midnight apparition.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The drawings were good,shewas good. Talented beyond what was fair, since she was born a woman and could never reach her full potential, as harsh as the world was.
He gave in to temptation with hardly a flicker of his conscience and kissed the tips of those clever fingers, the faint earthy smell of paint lingering on her skin. Then kissed slowly up the line of her soft, elegant arm, pulling her closer with each brush of his lips until he reached the cuff of the ridiculously prim nightgown, which did absolutely nothing to conceal the full extent of her curves.
Emmaline’s eyes were clever too, Benedict decided, cupping her cheeks with his hands now and pressing light kisses to her face, forcing her to finally close those wide, doe brown eyes, eyelashes brushing against his cheeks like the kiss of a butterfly.
He should not be doing this, but something was pulling him towards this woman that was too powerful to resist, especially with her literally in his lap.
Emmaline sat as still as a deer about to flee, her hands lightly holding his wrists as if to push him away, but all it did was make him want to feel her hands on other areas. Extremely ungentlemanly places.
Benedict was suddenly stone-cold sober, but intoxicated by the feel and smell of the beautiful woman in his arms.
He allowed his lips to brush the corner of her mouth, teasing them both and drawing a low whimper from her throat.
“You have spent far too many hours examining me at your leisure,” Benedict drawled, dragging his mouth to the soft skin behind her ear and nibbling there. Savouring the taste of her skin. “I think it only fair that I get to explore your beauty for a change.”
Emmy sucked in a breath at his words, but he silenced her with a real kiss, pressing his lips to hers lightly, then harder, each pass a little deeper, tasting a little more, until she was kissing him back shyly, opening her lips so he could taste her fully, making his blood pound with passion, her fingers digging into his arms now as he dragged her flush against him with a groan of desire.
Benedict let his hands wander as they explored the kiss, appreciating every soft, tempting curve, the feel of her breasts pressed against him, each little whimper in her throat.
He pulled back and looked down, clenching his teeth at the sight of the lush cleavage exposed by the gaping neck of her gown, tugging it down further so he could see even more smooth skin.
His fantasies had not done nearly enough justice to the sensuous reality of her form.
Emmaline was breathless, her eyes huge and luminous, and Benedict wanted to lay at her feet and worship her, like the goddess she appeared.
Impulsively, he shifted, rolling them so that she lay below him on the chaise, her long silky brown hair splayed across the backrest and spilling down to the floor.
A sinful image came to mind, of her hair spread over the pillows of his bed, her legs wrapped tight around him as he fucked her senseless.
Benedict wanted her so badly, but his honour was beating at the door of his conscience, ordering him to stop.
He decided to appease both urges as best he could.
“What-” Gasped Emmaline, squirming beneath him.
